precipice
by ShadowsTakeAll
Summary: "… she's going to love him forever. They're going to spend their lives together. I may never have that with her, but at least she'll know I was willing to die for her."


**Hi guys! Sorry for my absence; November is always a crazy month. But I'm back! (Sort of.) I published a one-shot a while ago, 'home', that didn't get much attention, so I'd love it if you guys could check it out. Promo over.**

**I want to offer a massive apology to the lovely LoginOrSignUp who has been so patient and understanding. This was a prompt given to me last month, and I actually wrote it a few weeks ago but then completely forgot to upload it. I am so, so sorry, and I hope this makes up for it.**

**The prompt was: 'a fic where Lydia grows closer to Parrish because he (unlike the pack and STILES) has been helping her out and being there for her and they get together and Stiles notices and is really conflicted and jealous because he is with Malia but he is still in love with Lydia.' I'm not sure if this is what you were looking for, but hey, had to add some Shadows twists.**

**Warnings for this chapter: angst, character death, the usual. Pairings are Stydia and Marrish.**

**That's about it. Read, enjoy, review. Here you go!**

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.

With the benefit of hindsight, Stiles can map out the path of his mistakes, the twists and turns that led him here. He can trace it out like heartlines on his hand, following the choices he's made and the friends he's lost. He can see the signs so clearly now, each one as bright as the sparkle in her eyes the first time he saw her. And just as deadly.

The wind shifts, bringing with it the promise of rain, barely perceptible over the sharp scent of the sea. Below him, waves hurl themselves against the rocks, shattering into foam only to regroup and go through it again. Stiles knows that feeling well.

The first hints of rain send shivers down Stiles' spine, but he doesn't move. He can't. Not yet. He knows he has all the time in the world, but urgency pricks at his heart and nudges him forward, until he's pacing along the cliff as the skies darken and the waves crash and rain drips down like forgotten tears.

At last there's movement, a whisper in the grass, a rustle against the rocks. Stiles doesn't turn, but he knows who the visitor is.

Suddenly, all noise ceases. The waves, still in their suicidal throes, are silent; thunder cuts off mid-rumble; even Stiles' breath comes out in noiseless puffs. Stiles stops pacing, but doesn't look back.

And then, a voice.

"You know who I am?"

Stiles nods, eyes still cast to the sea, his back to the hooded figure behind him.

"You know what I want?"

Stiles nods again, the words getting lodged in his bones and trickling through his veins like poison.

"Then," the voice says, slow and deep and full of promise, "why are you here?"

At this Stiles turns, but he keeps his eyes downcast. He can see the black cloak sweeping the ground, the glint of a sword tucked into a high-waisted belt, tiny drops of rain sending up clouds of dirt. "Because," he says slowly, "I want something from you too."

A slow intake of breath, and then, "A bold demand." A thoughtful pause. "What is it you seek?"

Although he knows better, Stiles looks up into jet-black eyes that go on forever. "I need to know," he says, already slipping, already feeling limbs weaken and thoughts blur. "I need to know what happened."

The figure watches him, unmoving, not blinking. "You want to know where you went wrong."

Lost for words, Stiles nods. He sinks to his knees, struggling to hold on, knowing this is the end.

But it isn't.

Abruptly, the noise returns. Waves, rain, the beating of his heart, it all comes hurtling back. The figure exhales slowly, still watching him.

Still on his knees, Stiles chokes out, "Can you – can you tell me?"

"Oh," says the figure slowly, sounding vaguely amused, "I can do better than that, my boy. I can show you."

Before Stiles can even ask what the hell that's supposed to mean, the sky falls down around him and he slips into nothingness.

.

It's dark, and it's loud, and then Stiles has to squeeze his eyes shut as a blinding light takes over his field of vision. He can feel it, a physical weight pressing against him on all sides, and then it vanishes. Stiles opens his eyes again, and this time he can see.

It's a tableau of broken people, the instant they all fell apart. Isaac, crumpling to the ground. Allison, lying in Scott's arms. And above it all, an aura of despair, the scent of blood, sounds of a battle long since lost.

The frame unfreezes and Stiles watches Allison taking her last breath. At this point in time he was in the tunnels, slumped against the walls, with –

- with Lydia.

The sight before him is too heartbreaking to watch. The sounds of Allison's dying words fade as Stiles walks away. He doesn't want to hear this, he doesn't want to know. He can't handle it, not when he knows he's the reason she's dead.

It's deathly silent in the tunnels, and Stiles feels like a stranger walking through this memory, like he's trespassing on some precious moment. They'd all been prepared to die that night, but some part of Stiles had always though he'd be the one to go. He'd been willing to die. And, although he's never told this to any of his friends, part of him had actually wanted it.

The tunnel widens out and then Stiles can see them. His past self is slowly waking up, and his world is about to shatter. He sees Lydia collapse against him, Allison's name still stinging her lips, and then she leans to him, speaks through her sobs.

"She's gone, oh _god_, she's gone."

Stiles can feel the ghost of her lips against his ear as she whispers this to him, even though he's currently standing halfway down the tunnel. He stays where he is, trying to figure out why he was shown this. It had been a significant moment, but surely it wasn't when everything fell apart. That wasn't when he'd lost Lydia. It couldn't have been.

"Take a closer look," says a voice from beside him.

Out of the corner of his eyes he can see the hooded figure, watching calmly. Stiles follows his instructions, approaching the scene with feather-light steps even though he knows they can't see him. He's not a ghost, not a memory; he simply doesn't exist.

As he reaches them, he sees the other Stiles finally realizing what's happening.

"Oh god," he murmurs, cradling his head in his hands, and Lydia reaches for him.

And he shrugs out of her grip.

In a whirl of colours, Stiles is gone.

.

This time when he opens his eyes, he's back on the cliff top. The figure is there, of course, still watching him. Waves crash against the rocks, rain drips from the sky, and it's all chilling and beautiful and Stiles can't even figure out why.

"Why did you show me that?" Stiles asks, realizing he'd landed on his knees in the dirt and not bothering to get to his feet.

"You know why, Stiles." His name slips from the figure's lips too easily, with terrifying familiarity.

Stiles shivers. "Because that was the moment I…" He hesitates, but the figure nods at him and he goes on. "The moment I started pushing her away."

The figure dips its head, acknowledging the truth in his words. "Would you like to see more?"

No.

Stiles doesn't want to see more. Suddenly he doesn't want to watch the entire progression of his almost love affair with Lydia, doesn't want to watch her slip away from him, doesn't want to relive the events that brought him to this point.

He opens his mouth to say so, but what he says instead is even worse.

"Yes."

.

A new scene. A typical school day. Stiles is in the doorway to a classroom, watching the students slowly trickle in. He and Scott are towards the end, with Kira trailing behind them looking a little lost. Scott turns to her, catches her eye and smiles, and some of her anxiety seems to fade.

Stiles watches as the three of them take their seats up the back, side by side, ignoring the empty seat in front of them. He doesn't remember this day exactly, but he knows it can't have been long after Allison's death. He watches his other self, notices the bags under his eyes and the slump in his shoulders, and he feels broken all over again.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary, and Stiles wonders why the figure brought him here. Then he hears a noise from behind him, a scuffing of shoes and a sharp intake of breath, and he turns to see Lydia. She's just outside the door, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, and it's clear she's been crying – hard.

She pauses in the doorway, right beside Stiles himself, and he can see the exact moment she puts on a brave face. She tosses the tissue in the trash, squares her shoulders, and sets her jaw. Then she marches over to the other three and sits down next to Kira, as casual and seemingly confident as ever.

Scott gives her a cursory nod before turning back to his conversation with Kira, and Stiles doesn't even look up from where he's digging his nails into the desk. Lydia looks at all three of them, and then turns her attention to the front.

And Stiles can just see a single tear rolling down her cheek.

.

There's no in-between this time; the figure isn't giving him a choice, a chance to turn back. His feet are set on this course, and he'll see it through.

This time it's what seems to be a pack meeting. It's at Derek's loft, and they're all there – Scott, Stiles (the other one), Kira, Lydia, Malia, Liam, even Derek himself. They're talking over the top of each other, arguing about something. For the life of him, Stiles can't remember. It could have been life or death; it could have been about what pizza topping to get.

It gets heated. Liam throws his hands up in frustration, and Scott lets out a sound that's vaguely like a growl. Derek says something in a low voice and everyone falls silent. Then Malia says something and it all starts up again, everyone struggling to be heard, trying not to listen.

After a while Lydia gives up, slipping from the group and quietly leaving the loft.

Nobody even notices she's gone.

.

The next scene is even shorter. Stiles recognizes the police station, and he can even see his dad in his office, doing paperwork and stopping every now and then to sigh.

The sound of a door gets Stiles' attention, and a moment later Lydia walks in, looking immaculate despite the tearstains on her cheeks and the quiver in her step. She approaches the Sheriff, asks quietly if Stiles is here. The Sheriff shakes his head, and Lydia turns to leave.

Stiles watches in fascination; he doesn't remember this. He hadn't seen her then, hadn't even known she'd tried to find him. He wonders why she never mentioned it.

Then he realizes.

When she's almost at the door, Lydia reaches into her bag for her lipstick, and at that exact moment the bottom of the bag rips and her belongings tumble to the floor. She curses and drops to her knees, hurriedly packing it all up, and then she's joined by someone else.

From his vantage point Stiles watches as Parrish helps Lydia clean up her things, and she smiles gratefully at him. He helps her to her feet, holds her hand just a little too long. Then he seems to remember himself and pulls away, but he's still standing close enough to touch her.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

Stiles doesn't hear the answer, but he sees the spark in Lydia's eyes, and that's enough.

.

By this point he's expecting another scene, so he's mildly surprised when he finds himself back on the cliff – back in the real world. A world which, in a matter of minutes, he is going to leave forever.

"You wanted to see," the figure reminds him, and he almost sounds… sympathetic? That can't be right.

"I know." Stiles stays where he is, on the ground, feeling dirt between his fingers and rain on his face, and he thinks of all the times he'd seen Lydia cry, all the times he'd been there for her – and wonders how many times he'd missed. "Show me more," he commands, and the world disappears again.

.

This time it's a montage, a soundless, sepia series of visions, each one more heartbreaking than the last.

It starts with his phone, resting by his bed. It goes off. Again. And again. Finally Stiles – the other one – pulls himself out of bed, blinking in the late morning sunlight, and he looks at the screen. _Five missed calls_. He scrolls through, sees they're all from Lydia, and shuts his phone off.

The next one is of Lydia herself, and he can only assume it's at that very moment. She lets her phone fall from her grasp, watches it clatter across the bathroom floor. She glances up at the sink, at the bottle of her mom's painkillers perched on the edge. She lets out a single sob and gets to her feet.

Then it's a school dance, and Lydia stands on the sidelines while Scott dances with Kira, while Stiles himself dances with Malia, while everyone twirls and giggles and dances under the disco lights. Lydia scans the crowd, and slowly the hope fades from her eyes and she turns her back on everyone.

Finally it's a scene of Lydia at home. She's sitting cross-legged on her bed, writing in a journal she has balanced on her knee. Her hand begins to shake until finally she has to set the pen down. She looks around the room, tears welling up in her eyes, and then she shouts.

It's the first sound that cuts through the barrier, the first thing Stiles hears.

_"__I hate you."_

The vehemence in her words shakes Stiles to the core, even though he doesn't know who she's directing the words at.

He doesn't suppose it matters.

.

"Have you had enough?" the figure asks when Stiles returns, and he stubbornly shakes his head. Surely there's nothing that could hurt more than this, no way it could be worse.

"More," he says simply, and the figure complies.

.

Another montage.

Bright colours this time, seeping in from the edges, growing more distinct with each image.

The first is Lydia, walking into the station again. But this time she doesn't go to the Sheriff; she doesn't look for Stiles. She walks right up to Parrish, flashes him a smile, and asks him out for dinner.

What follows are a series of snapshots from their first date. Parrish holding the door open for her. Lydia telling a story so animated that it brings light back to her eyes. Them kissing on the front porch of her house. Her gently touching her fingers to her lips when he leaves, as if she's not sure this is real. Her slow smile when she realizes it is.

Stiles sees their love story in slow motion. He sees Lydia pull away from the pack, spending more time with the deputy. He sees countless late nights at the station, flicking through every magical book they can find, searching for Parrish's supernatural identity. He sees their triumph when they come up with the answer: phoenix. He sees more kisses than he would ever want to know about. He sees their connection deepen, sees her skipping pack meetings to be with him, sees him holding her while she cries. He sees all those moments and yet he doesn't let himself believe them, because somewhere in the back of his mind is the thought that these memories were supposed to be his.

.

"So they were happy," Stiles says when he's back on the cliff.

"For a time, yes," the figure agrees, voice still low but nowhere near as terrifying.

"And then you came along."

"Yes."

Stiles hesitates, and then he makes another bold request. "Show me what happened then."

The figure surveys him, glances out at the ocean, sighs almost inaudibly. "As you wish."

.

This time he sees the figure, a ghostly apparition lurking on the edges of Beacon Hills. Stiles watches, but he knows how this story goes. It'll be weeks before the pack realizes there's something wrong, and even longer before they work out how to stop it.

As if the figure can sense this, the world around him fades and reforms, showing him Derek's loft again. The pack is all there, even Lydia – and Parrish, Stiles notes with a hint of annoyance – and so is the figure, regarding them all impassively.

"That's crazy," Scott says, and Malia and Kira murmur their agreement.

"Nobody's going to agree to that," Derek points out, his voice ragged with barely-suppressed anger.

"You'd be surprised," the figure says. "So that's the deal – take it or leave it."

"A hundred people have to die," Scott says, his voice shaking with disbelief. "A hundred innocent people. That's what you want?"

"A hundred innocent people," the figure agrees, sounding strangely distant, "or just one willing sacrifice."

.

This time it's a montage of arguments, every time the pack had come together to try to come up with a solution. A hundred innocent people, or one willing sacrifice. Statistically, they all know what they have to do – but they have no idea how to do it.

Kira and Parrish, it turns out, are both immortal, which means they can't be the sacrifice. Liam is ruled out almost immediately, on account of his age and inexperience and puppy dog eyes. Malia rules herself out, and even Stiles doesn't try to defend her this time. Which leaves Scott, Stiles, and Derek.

For each of them, the choice is obvious.

Scott is trying to protect his pack.

Derek has nothing left to lose.

And Stiles has a thousand crimes to make up for.

Death is the ultimate blank slate, a karmic balancing mechanism. An apology, penance, and payment all wrapped up in one.

And, in this twisted little game of war, it's the ultimate prize.

.

"We never made a decision," Stiles says on the cliff face, and the figure nods. "We hadn't decided who was going to be the sacrifice."

"And yet here you are." The figure – the nameless, faceless enemy that's been tormenting them for months – seems almost sad. "And now you know how you got here. But I want to know something."

Stiles gets slowly to his feet, feeling electricity crackling against his skin and dirt sticking to his clothes and his heart pounding in his chest. "What do you want to know?"

"Why?" the figure asks simply, and it stops Stiles in his tracks.

"It's the only way to stop you," Stiles says after a while, but it doesn't sound convincing even to his ears. And, for a reason he can't quite fathom, he feels the need to tell the truth. "And because… she's going to love him forever. They're going to spend their lives together. I may never have that with her, but at least she'll know I was willing to die for her."

The figure is silent. "Is that what you want, Stiles? Do you want to die?"

Stiles raises his head, looks his fate in the eye, and nods. "Yes."

"For what it's worth," the figure says, as he raises his sword above his head, "she loved you too."

"Wait," Stiles says suddenly, as lightning dances around the sword. "Can you – I mean, can you tell me what's going to happen? If they're going to be okay?"

The figure pauses, lightning still gathering in the sword, giving it an ethereal glow. "What do you want me to say?"

Stiles swallows, tasting blood in his mouth and feeling wind tug at his hair and hearing the waves hurl themselves into oblivion below him. "Tell me what I want to hear."

"Yes," the figure says as he swings his sword, "your sacrifice will be enough to ensure a long and fulfilling life for all of your friends. Does that make you happy?"

Stiles' eyes follow the swish of the sword through the air; he sees light glint off it as it swings toward his body. "Yeah," he says, with the faintest hint of a smile, "it kinda does."

This time when he falls into nothingness, he doesn't come back.

.

X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X.X

**This is a completed one-shot and will not be continued.**

**I hope you liked this, and if you did, please do let me know. See you guys around!**


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